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“Cookie, I thought when I looked at Ellie.
Not that I wanted to eat her. I wasn't a cannibal or anything.
But she reminded me of the cookies my mother baked when her bridge group came to our house. The smell of them in the oven was all rich vanilla and spice, oh-so-sweet.
Ellie was a little shorter than me, with endless curves that swooped and dipped, creamy skin sprinkled with cinnamon freckles up and down her arms and across her round cheeks. Her short hair fell in soft honey-colored curls, and her big blue eyes... well, that's where the whole cookie idea fell down, but they made me think of my favorite pair of worn-out jeans.
But back to those cookies. Every time, I'd tiptoe to the cooling rack and reach for one perfectly round, warm cookie when I thought Mom wasn't looking. And every time, out of nowhere, she'd slap my grubby hand away, snapping, "Not for you."
Ellie may have looked warm and round, but she had "not for you" written all over her.”
― Sarah Chamberlain, The Slowest Burn